


Dead Wolves Still Have Teeth

by imadra_blue



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon - Book, Canon - TV, Drama, F/F, First Time, Inspired by Music, Intrigue, One-Shot, POV Third Person Limited, Queen Sansa, Queen in the North, Romance, Series Conclusion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-24
Updated: 2014-04-24
Packaged: 2018-01-20 15:22:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1515359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imadra_blue/pseuds/imadra_blue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Margaery Tyrell comes to Sansa Stark after her wedding day for sanctuary.  Soon, she and Sansa are closer than ever, but Petyr Baelish is not pleased with this development.  If Sansa is to retake Winterfell as Queen of the North, she must become a wolf again, though her direwolf died years ago.  But dead wolves still have teeth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dead Wolves Still Have Teeth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [abluestocking](https://archiveofourown.org/users/abluestocking/gifts).



> Notes: This story is sort of a fusion and extension of both book and show canon, to extend out to the series conclusion I write about here. The mood and some of the themes were inspired by "Dead Inside" by Foreign Slippers, which I listened to excessively while writing this. The Emily Browning's cover of "Sweet Dreams" also provides other themes and moods. I recommend listening to both songs while reading, if you're so inclined.
> 
> Beta Reader: Many thanks to Vector for reading this over and pointing out areas for improvement! All mistakes that remain are my own.

…

King's Landing had burned. It had burned, and its ashes drifted across the ocean. Or at least, that was how Sansa imagined it as her new husband draped his cloak over her shoulders. She could hardly concentrate on Harrold Hardyng, handsome as he might be. He seemed unimportant when King's Landing was now a graveyard built by dragonfire. Many people there had deserved to burn, such as the Lannisters, but not all of them. Sansa could not stop thinking of Margaery, of the Tyrells, of the small bits of kindness she had received when trapped in that gilded cage. Had they burned, too?

Harrold smiled as they walked, now husband and wife, past the gathered Lords and Ladies of the Vale. Sansa forced a smile on her face, and thought Harry's hand felt cold and clammy around hers. It was not the wedding she had always dreamed of. It was not even the wedding Littlefinger had dreamed of. They might call Sansa Queen in the North, last of the Starks, but the Queen in the South had taken King's Landing with her dragons. Sansa lacked even her direwolf, for Lady was long dead. And the new cloak she wore bore a falcon, not a direwolf.

Petyr Baelish smiled at her as she walked past, a finger crooked over his chin, his eyes gleaming in ways she did not care for. 

…

Sansa climbed out of bed the next morning, still a maid. Harrold had slept in his own bed, with his manservant. He had only smiled and bowed before Sansa and then left her alone, with no explanation. Sansa had sat in her marital bed alone, listening to Harry and his manservant next door, realizing that no explanations were necessary. Her disappointment had been a passing emotion. Everything she felt was passing. Nothing was a constant. Her entire life had been built on quicksand.

"There was that one little setback with Harrold," Petyr said, as he entered her room without being invited. "I am sorry about that."

Sansa said nothing. She had learned, long ago, in King's Landing, not to expect much from anyone. She pulled her robes about herself. She did not truly care for the way Petyr looked at her. It was likely the same look he had given her mother once.

"At least it's not that troubling a setback. Any man can sire a child on you." His eyes glinted. "Any man you want."

Sansa's brows drew together. She tried to think of a man she wanted, but none came to mind. Those childish dreams had died, long ago, burned to ash much like King's Landing. Whatever had remained of them had passed away last night, when her husband bowed and left to share his marriage bed with another man. Petyr reached for her, but before his hand touched hers, a guard appeared in the doorway.

"Milord. Milady. There's a survivor from King's Landing here," the guard said, panting. Judging by his appearance, he'd ran all the way to Sansa's room in the keep.

Petyr exchanged a glance with Sansa before dashing out the door. Sansa followed on his heels. She did not bother to dress, so she arrived in the great hall wearing only a dressing gown over her nightclothes. A lone woman stood there, wearing a cloak that might have been luxurious, once. The edges had been burned and tattered, and the bottom splattered with mud and melting snow. Sansa considered leaving to dress properly before the woman threw back her hood, her long brown hair spilling out from its folds.

Margaery stared at her, her pretty face hollow and pale. "I come seeking amnesty. Sanctuary." She swallowed. "Everything is gone. Burned away."

"Why, then, were you spared?" asked Petyr, staring at her without blinking.

"Because Daenerys Stormborn has a message for all of you." Margaery licked her lips. "She said, 'There will be only one Queen of Westeros.'"

…

Sansa had dressed and eaten breakfast by the time Petyr allowed her in to speak to Margaery again. Margaery wore the same tattered gown, the same burnt cloak. Her hands clutched her knees, and she stared straight forward as Petyr interrogated her. She blinked when Sansa entered, but she did not relax. Sansa did not blame her.

"That's enough," Sansa said, and gestured for the maid to put the tray of sweet cakes and tea on the stand. "Lord Baelish, we must let our guest rest."

Petyr nodded courteously, though his eyes remained sharp as he slipped out with his guards in tow. Margaery let out a deep breath when he left, and her shoulders sagged. She studied Sansa. Though she had retained her beauty, there was a haunted quality to her eyes now. Sansa could guess why. Margaery had been accused of adultery by Cersei, tried by the Faith, and found wanting. Before they could execute her, King's Landing had burned. Sansa wondered if Margaery considered Daenerys Targaryen's attack a mixed blessing or not.

Sansa smiled and gestured at the food. "Please eat, Your Grace."

"Don't call me that. I'm not Queen any longer. Queens have dragons," Margaery said, swallowing. "Queens have armies willing to die for her. Queens have Kings."

Sansa smiled and handed Margaery a lemon cake. "I have none of these things, but I'm not going to let that stop me."

Margaery stared at the lemon cake, and after a moment, she took it and smiled. "You've changed, Lady Sansa."

…

"If you're to be Queen in the North, then you cannot afford to allow Margaery to remain here," Petyr snapped, pacing Sansa's chambers like a frustrated alley cat.

"Shouldn't we be more concerned by Daenerys Targaryen and her dragons?"

"She has ceased her expansion for now, instead fortifying her claim on what she has taken. And she will not find the Vale so easy to tame. Margaery, on the other hand, can threaten your claim. She may be Tommen's widow, but that still makes her Queen."

"Of what?" Sansa cradled her teacup, waiting for the tea to cool. "King's Landing is ash. Highgarden was laid to waste. The rest of House Tyrell has been killed. And the King that made her Queen was in truth a bastard with no claim to the throne."

"Yet, they still called him King," Petyr said.

"Like they'll call me Queen?" Sansa took a sip of the still too-warm tea and studied Petyr. She no longer saw any kindness about him. He was like a knife, all sharp edges and convenient reflections of the light.

Petyr shook his head. "Sansa, Sansa, my sweetling. You cannot be so trusting of this conniving girl. She's a King's widow thrice over. How do we not know she fed a dragon her own child husband just so she could escape?"

Sansa set the teacup down. The saucer rattled. She gave Petyr a hard look. "You mean like how you poisoned little Lord Robert so my husband could be named as heir?"

"He was a weak child, Sansa." Petyr's voice did not waver. Sansa had not expected it to. "You know that."

"Yes. I know that." And Sansa knew, too, she had done nothing to prevent her cousin's poisoning. He had been so weak, so sickly, so addled, she had told herself, when sitting by his deathbed. She had wanted to be free of him, deep down. And that desire had made her Petyr's silent accomplice. She had grieved only a little for young Robert Arryn. The rest of her was too dead to mourn him. Those parts had burned to ash long ago, and not because of dragons. _Because of lions_ , she thought. Dead lions now. That thought made her smile a little.

Petyr's sharp gaze wiped the smile off Sansa's face. "Have I said something funny, Sansa?" he asked, one brow arched.

"No." Sansa cleared her throat. "No, Lord Baelish."

"Then what will you do with the Tyrell girl?"

"I could use an attendant."

"For now, I suppose that will do. Reconsider her presence. You're smart enough to understand the risk. Now, I must speak with the Lords. We've more plans to make before moving on the North." Petyr bowed and headed out.

Sansa finished her tea and sifted the leaves at the bottom. If she tilted the cup just right, it almost looked like a wolf at the bottom.

…

Margaery did not protest becoming Sansa's attendant. She even looked grateful and kissed Sansa's hand. As she followed Sansa about, fussing over her clothes and hair, it felt as if they'd been friends much longer than they had. As the days and weeks passed, color returned to her pale face, but something of her old liveliness seemed gone. Sansa wondered if Margaery felt a little dead inside, too.

"Lord Baelish sent another message for you about how the army is proceeding in its siege of the North," Margaery said one morning as she poured Sansa a glass of juice. "The Boltons are dead, but Stannis Baratheon persists."

Sansa thought of her brother Robb and of her mother, and of the Red Wedding they had attended. She thought of Roose Bolton turning on her family in Lord Frey's halls. She nodded at Margaery, hoping Lord Bolton and his family suffered as hers had.

"What of the Freys?" Sansa asked as she took a seat.

Margaery handed her the letter. "They're helping Lord Baelish." She turned away to grab a piece of bread, so she did not see Sansa's hands shake so badly that she ripped the paper.

"Are you all right, milady?" she asked when she turned and saw Sansa holding the torn pieces of paper, still trembling.

Fury stole Sansa's voice, but she still managed to nod. It was polite to lie about such things.

…

Though Sansa's husband remained in the North, his every action and word a reflection of Petyr's desires, Petyr found the time to return for her nameday feast. On a table in the great hall, he laid out Harry's nameday gift for her. It was a half-burned tapestry of a direwolf. It looked familiar, but when Sansa touched the edges of it, it no longer felt familiar. Margaery glanced at her from the side, frowning slightly.

"He found it in the remains of your old room," Petyr said. "He thought you'd like it."

Sansa stared at the half-burnt direwolf, and thought of Lady. Beautiful, elegant Lady, who had always obeyed her. She had obeyed until death. Sansa's ignorance and acceptance of the machinations of everyone around her had caused Lady's death. Sansa had not realized it then, but it was the first time something inside of her had died. She withdrew her hand from the tapestry. "It was very thoughtful of him," she said in a strangled voice. "Please extend him my thanks."

"And now for my gift." Petyr smiled and laid an elaborately embroidered bag on top of the tapestry. "Inside, you'll find all you need to repair the tapestry. You are a wolf, milady. Bring one back to life."

"Thank you so much, Lord Baelish." Sansa stood and bowed deeply, offering him her sweetest smile. "I am overwhelmed." And she was, though she could not explain why.

Petyr stroked her hair for a moment, his eyes once again glinting in ways that left her stomach cold and hollow. "You are most welcome, sweetling. I will see you at dinner." He whisked away then, after bowing.

Margaery stood by the tapestry, studying it for a moment before glancing up at Sansa. "Will you add a falcon for your husband's house to the tapestry?"

"No." Sansa shook her head and started to head to her chambers to dress for dinner. "Why bother?"

…

Preparing for the nameday feast Petyr threw in her honor proved to be quite an effort. Sansa was expected to look perfect, and every detail had to be accounted for. After the bathing, the powdering, and the dressing, Sansa and Margaery were left alone to finish her hair. Sansa stared into the looking glass, watching Margaery braid her long auburn hair. Margaery's dress had been cut low, much like Sansa's, leaving her shoulders and collarbone bare. Her brown hair fell in gentle curls, and slid enticingly over her pale skin. She still looked to Sansa like a queen.

Margaery glanced into the mirror and smiled a little. "You look beautiful, milady. As you should, on your nameday." She trailed her fingers up and down Sansa's neck, causing Sansa to shudder. Margaery's touch made her feel oddly, providing her with a warmth she didn't quite understand, and a tightness between her legs. They stared at each other in the mirror for a long moment.

Perhaps Margaery noticed the trail of pink creeping over Sansa's face. Perhaps she didn't. Her hands slowly slid inside Sansa's dress from the top, but Sansa made no moves to stop her, not even when her hands covered Sansa's breasts. Sansa made a soft sound of surprise, but felt no desire to resist as Margaery's thumbs brushed her hardening nipples. She glanced up at Margaery, who smiled down at her and placed a gentle kiss, upside down, upon her lips. Margaery's thumbs continued to rub her nipples, her hands cupping Sansa's breasts inside her gown.

Margaery pulled back from the kiss and lifted Sansa's bosom free from her dress. She moved to the front of Sansa and bent down to take one nipple in her mouth. Sansa watched with her mouth open, trying to fathom why Margaery would do such a thing. The reason became clear after a moment, as Sansa began to feel wet and hot between her legs. Margaery locked gazes with Sansa as her tongue traced lazy circles around Sansa's nipples. Sansa could hardly breathe as Margaery began to lift Sansa's skirts. Sansa was not entirely sure what Margaery planned, but very much wanted to find out.

A sharp knock on the door caused Margaery to drop Sansa's skirt and stand up. Sansa sat there, gasping, her nipples wet and hard, cold now without Margaery's hands or mouth. Margaery, however, seemed perfectly composed when she cracked open the door.

"Dinner is served," said one of the maids.

Margaery nodded and closed the door again. When Sansa turned to her, she tucked Sansa's bosom back inside her dress. "Lord Baelish awaits, milady."

…

Petyr looked confused, perhaps even offended, when Sansa exited dinner as quickly as courtesy allowed. Sansa, however, did not care. He was acting far too forward, touching her hand far too often, giving her looks that made her feel a bit ill. Sansa did not want to consider Petyr for long, especially not when there was prettier company to consider.

As usual for this time of night, Margaery could be found in Sansa's bedchambers. She was lighting candles when Sansa returned. Sansa shut the door behind her, watching Margaery, but not sure what to ask. Their interlude before dinner had surely been indecent, especially for a married woman and a widow, but Sansa desperately wanted it to resume. She did not know how to ask, however.

"May I help you undress, milady?" Margaery asked, her question seemingly innocent, judging by the sleepy look on her face.

Sansa nodded and stepped forward. Margaery approached and undid all her gown's lacings. In short order, Sansa had on nothing but her bodice and her smallclothes. But every time Margaery's fingers brushed against her skin, she shivered. She felt so hot and light-headed, grounded in a reality that existed only in the present. No one had ever made her feel like that before.

Though Sansa could not think of how to ask with words for Margaery to touch her as she had earlier, she could think of other ways to ask. When Margaery moved closer to undo her bodice, Sansa leaned forward and kissed Margaery. Margaery tasted sweet, as if she had recently eaten fruit. The warmth of Margaery's mouth shot right through Sansa, leaving her wanting again. Margaery smiled when Sansa pulled away to breathe.

"Do you like kisses, Sansa?" she asked, her brown eyes dark against the candlelight.

Sansa nodded. Margaery continued to smile and took her by the hand, guiding her to the bed. "Then lay down," she whispered.

Doing as she was told without question, Sansa lay upon the bed. Margaery slid next to her on the bed and kissed her again, long and deep. Sansa shuddered and stroked Margaery's bared shoulders, finding her skin as soft as it seemed. She'd been kissed before, but hadn't imagined it could feel as nice as this.

"I like kissing people, too," Margaery whispered, and moved her lips down Sansa's throat to kiss her collarbone. Once Margaery's fingers undid the top of her bodice, Sansa's breath hitched. Sansa watched as Margaery kissed her way down Sansa's cleavage, slowly pulling on laces as she did so. She sighed at the thrill, but was soon distracted by a new one when Margaery slipped her hand between Sansa's legs, palm pressed against her smallclothes.

"Oh," Sansa said in mild surprise as Margaery started rubbing her hand between Sansa's legs. The alarm she had been conditioned to feel when men touched her did not emerge when Margaery touched her. She felt her world narrow to between her legs. When Margaery's thumb brushed against Sansa's clit, Sansa spread her legs and moaned, more than willing to let Margaery have her way. She lifted her hips a little and bit her lips as Margaery slipped a finger inside her smallclothes to dip against her opening. She never felt so warm. It spread all the way to her head, making her feel as if she had drunk too much wine, though she'd not even finished half a glass at dinner.

"You're quite wet," Margaery whispered. Sansa opened her eyes to see Margaery slip her moist fingers into her mouth. Her own mouth worked silently at the sight.

"Margaery," Sansa whispered as Margaery leaned forward to brush their lips together, denying her a full kiss. She had never felt so hot, so wanton. What Margaery did to her could not compare to her childish fantasies about princes and men, fantasies that had, often as not, become her nightmares. This felt more real, free from the haze of danger that lined all of Sansa's other relationships. "Kiss me, Margaery."

"As my Queen desires," Margaery said, smiling wide, her eyes dancing as she tugged Sansa's smallclothes down and disappeared from sight. Sansa blinked and half-sat up, but she only had time to see Margaery's head between her legs before she felt Margaery's lips close over her clit.

"Oh!" Sansa gasped, her thighs trembling as Margaery began to suck her clit. She had not meant for Margaery to kiss those lips, but she realized this was the kiss she had wanted, she had needed. When Margaery's tongue slid eagerly across her clit, Sansa fell back against the bed, boneless. The warmth continued to drive her mad, building into a heat the crawled over her entire flesh. Margaery's tongue drove inside her, and Sansa moaned, twisting the sheets in her hands.

When she came, Sansa feared the sounds that escaped her did not befit a Queen.

…

The next morning, Sansa awoke when Margaery pulled free from her embrace. Margaery stood and pulled her gown on, hiding the white flesh that Sansa had learned to appreciate only the night before. It seemed a shame to hide it again.

Sansa tried to hide her disappointment and studied Margaery's profile as she dressed. She considered her time in King's Landing with Margaery, beautiful, kind Margaery. Margaery, who had provided her with much needed respite from the horrors of the Lannisters. Margaery, who had now come to Sansa, looking for sanctuary. "Why are you here, Margaery?" she asked, before she thought better of it.

Margaery looked down, her brown curls trailing down across her face, her expression painfully neutral. "You're too good to waste, Sansa Stark. After King's Landing burned, I had to choose where I would go, and I chose to go to you. Being in a loveless, arranged marriage is of no comfort to any woman. Trust me, I would know. I was in three of them." She left then, her rustling gown the only sound in the room.

And Sansa watched her. She wondered at Margaery's words, for she knew there was very little left to her that was any good.

…

Petyr gave Sansa a cold, hard look on the morning he left. She stood outside, hands folded in front of her, wrapped in her husband's falcon cloak. He gestured for Margaery to leave, and she bowed and disappeared inside the castle gates. Sansa glanced after Margaery before turning back to Petyr.

"I've informed all the servants, but within a week, I expect you at Winterfell. With the last Baratheon out of the way, it is safe for you to come. For you to be Queen in the North." Petyr glanced back at the opening. "Do not bring the Tyrell girl. She has nothing either of us needs. And she's proving quite the distraction for you." 

Sansa's face heated. Had Petyr heard her? Did he know of their affair? Sansa regretted being so loud with Margaery now. "I don't know what you mean," she said, her voice weak even to her own ears. The fear of losing the only good thing in her life made her feel sick to her stomach.

"Of course you do. But she is using you, sweetling. Just as she used her three dead husbands. Leave her here." Petyr nodded and turned his horse to follow his men out.

"But what will happen to her?"

Petyr didn't glance back as his horse cantered away. "Nothing you need concern yourself with."

…

"Is he going to kill me?" Margaery asked that night, over dinner. Her tone indicated curiosity more than concern. Sansa had not said a word, but Margaery was no fool. She seemed to have sensed the fate Petyr no doubt planned for her.

"He will try," Sansa said, and took a sip of wine.

Margaery tilted her head. "What will you do instead?"

"Kill him."

Margaery blinked once, then leaned forward, her gaze fixed on Sansa. "Do you think you can?"

Sansa set down her goblet and considered Margaery. Margaery stared back, her lovely face framed by her soft brown curls, so soft and delicate-looking. Her doe-like eyes seemed devoid of any mischief, but Sansa could not entirely discount Petyr's warning. Margaery could be dangerous. She could be using Sansa. But then, Petyr was dangerous. Petyr used Sansa. And Sansa enjoyed Petyr's company far less. Sansa glanced away, and her gaze caught on her family's tapestry. It still lay in the corner where she'd left it after her nameday feast.

"We shall see," Sansa said, then turned back to her dinner plate. "But we'll need a plan."

Margaery's sweet smile turned a little sharp, and her bright eyes danced. "I can help you with that, my love."

…

"We need to talk later," Sansa whispered to Petyr, when they met again, in the halls of Winterfell. The stones bore signs of scorching, and all the furniture had been replaced. It looked nothing like her old home. Nothing felt right. Despite all the armored men ostensibly under her command—more like Petyr's command—it felt empty. She knew why, though. It was because she was the only Stark there. And she had come to her family's home dressed as one, wearing only her white wolf's cloak. She had left her husband's cloak in his castle, where it belonged.

Petyr glanced about Sansa, obviously looking for signs of Margaery, but he would not find her amongst Sansa's attendants. He nodded once. "Later, in the library tower," he whispered back, his eyes gleaming again. Sansa's skin crawled beneath his gaze.

Sansa passed the Freys that had been invited on her way to the banquet. They all looked at her with rat faces, and the oldest one smirked at her. Sansa ignored them. They would have her attention later.

Ghosts sat at the dining table by Sansa, as she ate her first meal in her ancestral home in years. She could almost hear her father at the head of the table, drinking and discussing matters of great importance with Maester Luwin. Beside him would be Robb, listening eagerly, trying so hard to learn enough to mimic their father. And then Jon, though he would appear more disinterested, would be listening closely as well. Jon alone lived, but he was so far away that it didn't matter. He might as well be dead, too. Sansa's two younger brothers, Bran and Rickon, would not be listening at all. Instead, both would be squabbling over some small toy that Maester Luwin had given them. Sansa could also hear her mother chiding Arya for acting up at the table again, for slurping too loudly, or joining the boys' dispute. Sansa would sit perfectly, as a lady should, waiting for her mother to notice how good she was.

Sansa smiled over her dinner, thinking of her rowdy younger sister, as lost as everyone else to her. She had once thought Arya too wild, thought that Arya ruined everything. But Arya had been wiser than Sansa, she knew that now. She had always known Joffrey for what he was. Sansa envied Arya's ability to express her fury. If Arya lived, she would have crushed their enemies long ago. She'd not have been anyone's pawn, as Sansa had. And she'd not fuss about getting blood on her hands.

Sansa took a long drink of wine, praying to the Seven that her sister's fierce spirit would guide her that night.

…

After feasting with her disinterested husband and her men, Sansa trudged up the library tower, holding her skirts up as she climbed on the new stairs. There were no books left inside. Those had been burned long ago. All that remained were scorched walls and a blackened candleholder. Even the floor was new. Through the open windows, a chill breeze fluttered in, snow drifting along. Sansa regretted leaving behind her warm wolf's cloak in favor of the flimsy handmaiden's cloak.

Petyr stood by the window, looking out, and turned when Sansa entered. He wore House Arryn's falcon cloak, his dead wife's—Sansa's dead aunt's—cloak. He smiled. "I am pleased you heeded my advice about the Tyrell girl."

Sansa dipped her head, studying Petyr's cloak, remembering her aunt disappearing through the moon door only a year before. "Thank you, Lord Baelish." She approached Petyr, padding quietly on the floor, just as Lady had on snow. Sansa had thought it a neat little courtesy for her direwolf at the time, but she realized it also had made Lady deadly, had she so chosen to be so.

"You're such a beautiful girl, just like your mother." Petyr held out a hand to her, to draw her closer. "You should consider having more beautiful children. I can help you with that, since your husband is not up to the task."

Though the idea made her a little sick, Sansa took his hand and stepped closer. "Oh, Lord Baelish. Your offer is generous, but…"

"But what, sweetling?"

With one great motion, Sansa violently thrust out her arms, pushing Petyr out the window just as he had her aunt, just as Jaime Lannister had little Bran. He did not fall silently, though. He screamed all the way down, like a child having a tantrum, before the very sickening crunch of his bones breaking against the stone pavement below cracked out. Sansa stared after him, wondering if she was now just like Petyr Baelish and Jaime Lannister.

"But I must decline," Sansa said, watching the blood pool around Petyr's broken body.

…

Back in Sansa's room, Margaery still stood by the window, wrapped in the Stark wolf's cloak, where all could see. The man's armor she had worn to Winterfell had been neatly hidden in the closet and would be returned to the armory the next day.

Sansa ripped off the borrowed handmaiden's cloak and sat upon her bed to breathe. She could still hear Petyr screaming, though he had long since ceased. Margaery sat next to her, silent for a long moment before taking Sansa's hand in hers.

"Are you ready?" Margaery asked, as the guards began shouting, no doubt discovering Petyr's body. "The Northern men I sent for should arrive overnight."

Sansa nodded. Margaey draped the wolf's cloak back over her shoulders and Sansa stood again, relieved to find that she had grown deaf to Petyr's screams.

…

The night seemed to last forever, filled with sycophants' pointless theories on why Lord Petyr Baelish had fallen to his death. Some suggested murder, but no one had been seen that could have done it. Margaery gently suggested that perhaps, now that he'd put his wife's beloved niece on the throne, he felt his life complete and had ended it. A few of the Lords obviously liked that story, eager as they were to be rid of Petyr, and supported it wholeheartedly. Sansa allowed them to theorize as she presided over the details for his funeral and guaranteed her place as Queen, with or without Petyr. Margaery's soft words ensured they understood Sansa would be the one they should look to for leadership.

Harrold sat at a table in the corner, nursing a mug of ale, clearly confused. He had not been groomed to take command in situations like these, but Sansa had. She sat on a large wooden chair placed where her father had once sat, greeting each of her father's men as they arrived. Their arrival soon silenced the men of the Vale. They were in the North now. They knew who their liege must be.

By dawn's light, most of her father's old allies had gathered in Winterfell's great hall. The Lords of the Vale also gathered around, watching as Margaery led the reluctant Freys into the hall. They had been stripped to their smallclothes, and they protested loudly as the guards shoved them before Sansa.

"Are you going to kill us, Sansa Stark?" demanded the oldest of them, no doubt one of the Late Lord Frey's elder sons. "Guests in your family's ancestral home?"

"That's what your father did to my oldest brother and mother, did he not?" she asked.

"And these lords will love you no better than us for killing your guests," spat another Frey. A young one, despite his balding head.

"But you're not my guests. I did not invite you into my home. You were invited by Lord Baelish. Who, sadly, killed himself last night. That makes you trespassers, not guests."

The oldest Frey blinked as though Sansa had struck him. It filled her with an odd sort of peace.

Sansa leaned forward to add weight to her next statement. "But even so, I am not so crass as to kill men who claim to be guests beneath my roof. But your invitation has been withdrawn, and I must insist you leave."

"Very well, then give us back our clothes and our horses," said the older Frey. The youngest of them, a boy in his late teens, wrapped his arms around himself. Sansa almost felt sorry for him, but then wondered if her brother or mother had looked like that before Freys murdered them under their own roof. Robb had been even younger than this boy when he died. She could not pity any of them, not any longer. Her sense of mercy had died, along with her innocence. While other people had slain her innocence, Sansa's mercy died at her own hands. 

"No, I'm afraid not. You won't be needing those." Sansa leaned back in her large wooden chair. Beside her, Margaery did not bother repressing a smile.

"But we'll die out there in the cold!" wailed another Frey.

"Then you should have listened more closely to my family, milord." Sansa stood. "Because winter is already here."

…

Sometimes, Sansa wondered what sort of monster she had become. She wondered if there was any difference between her and those who had tormented and used her. She wondered if it even mattered.

"Sansa!" Margaery screamed. "Sansa, come back in here! You'll catch your death of cold out there!"

Cold. Cold and death. These were the promises of a Stark. Her promises now. Sansa shivered and wrapped her white wolf's cloak about her, her bare feet numb in the snow. She could lose her toes, even her feet in this cold, she knew that, but she didn't care. It was so cold she'd be spared the pain. She tilted her face upwards, so the snow could drift across her face. It was silent, all but for Margaery calling for her.

"Sansa!" Margaery cried. She grabbed Sansa's arms and pulled her back inside. Sansa stumbled over the snow as Margaery dragged her along, but soon she was inside, by the fire, by Margaery, where there was warmth, there was life.

Sansa gasped in pain as the numbness left her feet. She toppled onto the couch and gripped the furs that covered it. It reminded her of Lady's coat, and tears sprung to her eyes, unshed. She glanced at Margaery, her eyes still stinging.

"Why did you go out there like that?" Margaery asked. Her brows knitted together, and her hands felt blessedly warm on Sansa's flesh.

Sansa smiled and wiped her eyes. "To remember who I am." She ran her tongue over her own teeth, wondering if they looked as sharp as they felt.

…

As Sansa solidified her claim as Queen in the North, news constantly flew in, carried by ravens' dark wings. In the North, Sansa's bastard brother, Jon Snow, attended by Stannis's red priestess, held fast against the White Walkers. But there were only so many men of the Night's Watch, and only so many men Sansa could spare. A few White Walkers made it as south as Winterfell, leaving terror and ravening corpses in their wake. In the South, Queen Daenerys had claimed the Riverlands and reduced the Twins to ash. None of the Freys there had survived. Even fewer mourned their passing. The North feared Daenerys's arrival as much as they did the White Walkers. Sansa felt trapped between two grim fates, one made of ice, the other of fire.

White Walkers could not be reasoned with, nor could dragons, but the dragons answered to a woman made of flesh and blood. Sansa extended a treaty to Daenerys. If Daenerys accepted Sansa's treaty, and helped them fight, even Sansa would bend the knee to her. She had learned, before winter even began, that royal titles were no shield against the inevitable. She waited for Margaery to grow angry, for Daenerys had cost Margaery everything when her dragons burned King's Landing, but Margaery only nodded when Sansa told her. She seemed far more accepting of Daenerys than Sansa would be, if their positions had reversed. Perhaps she feared the White Walkers more than dragons.

At home, Sansa commanded the men that had once served her father, and Margaery brought her others, winning them with smiles and well-placed words. Harry kept to his men, and to his credit, seemed to content to allow Sansa all the power assigned to him as the heir of House Arryn. Sansa appreciated his deference; it gave her a freedom she'd never enjoyed before. But only one person ever made Sansa happy. And as much as Sansa came to love Margaery, she feared any love Margaery held for her would vanish when Daenerys Targaryen arrived.

…

On the day that Daenerys landed at Winterfell, riding atop a fierce black dragon, Sansa waited by Margaery. She did not look Margaery in the eye, fearing Margaery would think her a traitor for this. Perhaps Sansa was no better than Petyr, who made his alliances with the Freys. But Sansa saw no other way to survive winter, to survive the White Walkers that slipped past her brother and laid waste to the North.

Daenerys did not look like a fierce conqueror who had laid waste to entire cities with dragon fire. She looked like a girl not much older than Sansa and Margaery, though her hair was impossibly silver. Her beauty was as great as the rumors held. However, what seemed most remarkable about her, aside from the huge black fire-breathing reptile she had rode in upon, was that despite wearing only a simple cloak, she did not seem cold. Oddly, that left a cold pit of fear in Sansa's belly.

"Are you Sansa Stark, then? Queen in the North?" Daenerys asked, tilting her head slightly.

Sansa bowed, though she never let her gaze stray from the dragon, which shook its head and eyed them all hungrily. "I am Sansa Stark," she said, forgoing her titles. To Sansa's right, Margaery bowed deeply. Her expression was impossible to read, and Sansa prayed to all seven gods and to the old gods of her father that Margaery would understand.

"Hm." Daenerys looked behind herself, to her personal entourage, and nodded. Two women wrapped in heavy winter cloaks stepped forward, one bent, the other small.

The bent one stepped forward and grabbed Margaery's hands. "My girl, my precious girl, you did it."

Margaery smiled and hugged the bent figure. "Of course I did, Grandmother. Welcome to Winterfell."

Before Sansa could say anything, the small woman grabbed her wrist, drawing her attention. The woman pulled back their hood and revealed her face to Sansa. Though older and bearing more scars, Sansa would always recognize her sister's face.

"Hello, Sansa," Arya said, her eyes sharp and hard, but her smile genuine. "You've done very well." Sansa felt overcome, and she could not speak. Her sister was alive. She closed her fingers over Arya's and held them tight, her eyes stinging in the cold.

Margaery moved beside Sansa and took her hand. "Don't you see, Sansa? It's like I told you. There will only be one Queen of Westeros, but she need not be cruel. She spared my family, she found your sister, she destroyed the Freys, and she let me help you. You see it now, don't you?"

Tears still in her eyes, her emotions leaving her body humming, Sansa nodded and glanced back at Daenerys. She dropped to her knees not out of necessity, but out of gratitude.

"I always intended for Margaery to help you become Queen in the North so I could take your title, Lady Sansa," Daenerys said, smiling as she helped Sansa to stand. "But I would not take anything from you without giving something in return."

…

_End._


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